Sugar Snow

by Myra Wollman

It’s too late, I couldn’t stop the flow.
The sap is running through the trees,
soon it will wake the branches, wake the leaves.
I tried to keep them all asleep, you know,
I tried to stop the maple’s growth,
but spring slipped in and like a thief
has taken back the time I stole, has given back the grief
I’m owed. Uprooted by upheaving warmth
I watch the snowflakes form.
Their taste is sweet, of course.
It’s sugar snow. It’s only fair
that I love bitter cold and spring is sweet, and warm.

Myra Wollman lives in the cold north, where she spends her days in the classroom and her nights looking for comets in the starry sky.

Photography by Kenneth Godoy